tonight's petit mors
James' place is empty of him. In the end, none of his people would help him leave, out of spite, I think, because they don't want him to go, so the two of us loaded his history in possesions into a U-Haul for tomorrow's trip that ends in New York City.
The apartment he lived in but never loved is cold and startlingly white and empty like space is empty. He's gone to his mother's for his final night, but so far, this is still the only place I have to sleep. I occupy his shell and do not fill the space.
That may change soon. A friend sent me a wonderful windfall - a potential apartment in downtown Dallas, hardwood floors, owned by a sweet old couple who don't bother with the rental formalities. $500 a month. If it goes through, I'll be ecstatic.
Now I'm being safe. My girl says she hopes I get it, but that I don't stay - an indirect reminder that she's still keeping faith that I'll make it to London. It's not that I think it impossible, but I've lost a year to the effort, and now I've got work to do. Catching up. Fixing what Heathrow made broken. I can still try for London, but I'm being safe now. Despair can be a natural place. Hope can be as dangerous as love.
Of course, for the moment, none of that matters, not while I'm lost in these white walls. James is gone, and I am not.
I'm caught in the construct. I'm waiting for some guns.
Ciro
--
"Then, in the afternoon, he purified himself in the waters of the river, worshipped the planetary gods, uttered the lawful syllables of a powerful name and slept. Almost immediately, he dreamt of a beating heart."
- Jorge Luis Borges, "The Circular Ruins" (trans. James E. Irby)